


Old Habits

by MissNaya



Category: DCU
Genre: Begging, Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Discipline, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 23:56:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11092593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya
Summary: Even though he's not a child any more, Bruce turns Jason over his knee.





	Old Habits

**Author's Note:**

> written for a [tumblr prompt!](https://dicktofen.tumblr.com/post/161431939452/bruce-being-like-you-cant-do-that-and-red-hood) feel free to send me requests there if you'd like.

He's not sure if it was supposed to be a joke, but when that first blow comes down on his ass, Jason doesn't laugh. Neither does Bruce. There's a moment's shared hesitation where they could do anything — stand up, dismiss it, move on, pretend this never happened — but neither of them do. And then Bruce spanks him a second time, and Jason knows he won't be moving any time soon.

“I shouldn't have to treat you like a child,” Bruce says, expertly hiding the slight tremble in his voice, “but you're acting like one.”

So. That's that.

That hand comes down again, and again, and Jason can't even remember what they'd been fighting about. He'd been about to do... _something,_ something that Bruce wouldn't like, probably involving criminals and guns, but the ringing in his ears drowns out even his memories. The only clear thought in his head is _what if someone comes and sees,_ with them out in the open in the Cave like this, but everything else is hazy, distant, second to the way his heart jumps into his throat every time Bruce's hand connects with his ass.

When he was younger, it wasn't like this. On those rare occasions when Bruce would take a swat at his bottom, he'd felt startled, ashamed, determined to do better in the future, but never so painfully... _whatever_ this is. He won't let himself think the word “aroused,” but his body doesn't care what his mind wants, and he thanks god for his cup shielding his hardening erection from Bruce's leg.

But there's a change in Bruce, too. His silence is usually expected, but rarely is it so overbearing, weighing down on Jason like a physical thing. If he would just _say something,_ maybe they could both pretend this isn't as weird as it is, but he doesn't, dutifully spanking Jason with one hand and keeping his arm pinned behind his back with the other.

He wonders if Bruce is just as hard as he is, under the Batsuit.

Jason doesn't realize how good a job he's been doing of staying silent, himself, until one harsh blow rocks him forward and cracks what's left of his resolve. He moans on an exhale, feeling for all the world like the wind's been knocked out of him, and when he sucks in another breath, he does it while rocking back toward Bruce's hand.

“Holy fuck, B,” he says. “Jesus _Christ._ Please.”

He doesn't know if he means “please stop” or “please keep going.” But he doesn't try to get away, not in any way that counts, so Bruce hits him again. He'd almost think the guy was heartless if he couldn't feel the tremble of the hand around his wrist. He thinks, with a certain burst of clarity, that Bruce is _affected_ by this, and that feeling makes his cock throb more than anything physical.

Bruce pauses then, like he's assessing the situation one strike too late, and Jason squirms on his lap. He imagines what those heavy fingers would feel like inside him, and he rolls his hips, now ungrateful that his cup's in the way.

“Please,” he breathes, blinking away the tears that have started to gather on his lashes. “Please, please, for fuck's sake, _please._ ”

Bruce falls impossibly more silent, more still, and Jason worries for a second that he crossed a line. But then he hears that gravelly voice warn “ _Language,_ ” and the next time Bruce's hand comes down on his ass, he doesn't try to hide how he moans.

Both their movements speed up from there, Bruce's smacks and Jason's wriggling. He's _humping Bruce's leg,_ he thinks, and it's dirty and shameful and ridiculous, but he's never been harder. He can feel the thumb of Bruce's other hand trace circles into the base of his palm, soothing little things, which is somehow more intimate than all the rest of this.

The next time Jason cries out, he hears the distant flutter of wings above him, a telltale sign that his echoing yelp scared the bats. He can't help but think, as Bruce's breaths speed up minutely above him, that they're not the only ones who are ready to cut and run at any moment. Maybe that's why he continues to mutter “Pleasepleaseplease,” but not “Please fuck me” or “Please let me suck you” or any of the other myriad things he wants to say, for fear that one wrong word might break the spell they've both fallen under.

Even so, it's not like it's a big secret, how this is affecting him. There's no way to construe his moans and the rocking of his hips as anything other than sexual. He's flushed to his neck, he can feel it, and his precum beads wet and hot inside his jock. He clenches and unclenches his fists, wishing he had Bruce's self-control, but he doesn't, and he's crying and _moaning_ like a fucking porn star, and— and—

“B please oh my god oh my _god,_ ” he whines. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, _yes, yes, yes...!_ ”

With a broken, stuttering, high-pitched moan, he clenches and he cums just from the feeling of Bruce's hand on his still-clothed ass. The hand on his wrist doesn't let up — holds him tighter, in fact — and by the time he's spent, Jason is both tenser and more relieved than he's ever been in his life, shaking there on Bruce's lap.

And that's fucking that, then, isn't it? No use pretending. So Jason ignores the pounding in his ears and the stars exploding behind his eyes, and sinks down onto his knees between Bruce's legs. Bruce lets go of his arm easily, but catches his head before he can nuzzle up to his crotch, and when Jason looks up, he's not sure what to make of the look on Bruce's face.

Is that terror? Shame? Arousal? Regret? He can't stand the thought of the last one, so Jason undoes the catches on the Batsuit despite Bruce's hands (reluctantly) trying to shove him away.

“Jason—” Bruce starts.

“No.” He pulls out Bruce's cock, blissfully hard and bigger than it ever looked in the showers together, and licks up the side. “B. _Bruce._ Oh, god.”

Bruce doesn't say anything, but when Jason's lips close around his cockhead, he sighs a shuddering sigh. Jason drinks it up and bobs his head, tongue and hands working together to cover every inch of Bruce's flesh.

He doesn't get much resistance after that. Jason's not exactly the most experienced cocksucker out there, but he's been around the block often enough for it to count, and he feels it in the twitch of Bruce's length when he sucks him down. He focuses entirely on the sensation for a few moments, on how hot and hard and thick Bruce is in his mouth, but then he looks up at his face, blue eyes half-lidded and still watery.

Bruce isn't looking at him. He's got his head tilted back, arm thrown up, biting down on one of his gauntlets to keep from making a sound, other hand holding tight onto the crook of Jason's neck and shoulder.

He can't stand it.

“Look at me,” Jason breathes, pulling off of Bruce. He strokes him with both hands, slicking up his length, and drags his teeth over the sensitive underside of the head. “Fucking _look at me,_ Bruce.”

Bruce does. Those eyes show off fear and lust and rage all at the same time, something primal, something uniquely _him,_ and then that other hand is on the back of his head, forcing him down.

“Language,” Bruce says again, a warning growl, and Jason just moans.

After that, things go quick. Jason can feel Bruce's ironclad will dissipate, and he gives in to pleasure, bucking up into Jason's mouth while muttering some hypocritical unsavory words of his own. But god, even the filthiest things can't compare to when he says Jason's name, altogether reverent and desperate and powerless.

Jason doesn't know if he truly forgets himself or just picks up on the fact that Jason's head isn't going anywhere, because there's barely a warning before he comes, and he doesn't pull away. Jason swallows around him, drinking down every drop, bathing in the animalistic little moans dragged up from Bruce's throat that make him sound more like a predator than a man.

And then it's over. As soon as Jason pulls away, it's like a thread snaps, leaving them sagging boneless where they sit, Bruce against the back of his chair, Jason between his legs. They sit and they gasp for air, and Jason thinks of twelve different not-so-nonchalant ways to exit the cave by the time Bruce's hand comes down again on the back of his neck.

For now, Jason drinks in those circles Bruce rubs into his skin with his thumb. For now, he savors the taste of Bruce on his lips. For now, he figures he can stick around, if only because he doesn't want to know what might happen when they both remember themselves again.

 


End file.
